He Just Won't Let Her Go
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: Her feet beat out a pattern on the forest floor. Her breath comes in sharp pants, her muscles ache. But she won't stop, not now, not ever. A daughter of Death can never stop running. Luke/OC
1. A Waiting Game

**Title: **He Just Won't Let Her Go

**Rating: **T for Language.

**Disclaimer:** I am not male, middle-aged or funny enough to own Percy Jackson. Enough said.

**Author's Note:** I know I have to update everything else, but bear with me? I had this idea, and I wanted to see where it would go. AU, obviously.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**A Waiting Game**

* * *

_Her feet beat out a pattern on the forest floor. Her breath comes in sharp pants, her muscles ache. But she won't stop, not now, not ever. A daughter of Death can never stop running._

The late afternoon sunlight is dazzling, blinding, streaming down from a clear blue sky. Reflecting off the turquoise waves of the sea, off the shiny buildings, the rust-red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. She's close. She can feel it.

The brambles tear at her bare feet as she scrambles down the side of the hill, towards the gleaming city. She's travelled for days, weeks even, to get here, to be here. And now the day's finally arrived. She won't have to run anymore.

Following her instincts, she enters the city through a back street which twists and turns like a maze. It is quiet; no-one's out. No-one except herself and the singing birds, fluttering between rooftops.

A sudden rustle makes her start – she whirls around, pulling the bronze knife concealed in her belt. "Who's there?" she rasps, her voice disturbing the quietude. No answer. "I said who's there?"

The lid of a nearby dustbin clatters to the ground. She tenses, ready for a fight, until a small head emerges from the rubbish. "Meow," it says.

She laughs bitterly, sliding the knife back into its scabbard. Only a cat. She's encountered plenty of those in her time, scrawny, scraggly creatures scrounging for food in bins. She's come close to following their example, but she's never been so desperate to actually do it.

Minutes of walking stretch into hours as she traverses the alleys, slowly making her way down to the glittering seashore. A cool breeze blows off the waves, whipping her tangled hair around her face as she stares into the distance, the sand crunching beneath her toes. She's supposed to be here – she's sure of that. Now it's just a waiting game. For what, she doesn't know.

* * *

Nothing. Still nothing. She retreats into the shelter of the city, her arms hunched up in her jacket as the chill of the night sets in. The streetlamps glow golden, casting an aura of light every few paces along the noisy, bustling streets. She slips through the crowd as easily as silk through fingers, past girls in high clubbing heels and boys in loud, raucous groups, eyes darting everywhere.

Her hand slides into a pocket, removes a fancy leopard-print wallet. Then she's gone, melting away into the shadows as though she'd never even been there.

Safely in the backstreets, she settles herself against a wall, opening her prize. A driver's license, a credit card, and a bundle of receipts. All worthless. She lets them fall, landing on the tarmac with an empty clatter.

A cherry-red lip-gloss, stuffed into the zip pocket. And, finally, what she was looking for. A wad of twenty-dollar notes. Enough to keep her fed for weeks, maybe even buy some jeans to replace these old rags that she's had for as long as she can remember.

She tilts her head back against the rough bricks of the wall, letting her eyelids drift shut. Sleep never comes easy on the streets, but she needs it. If she's tired, she'll make a blunder, and that's when the cops start to get suspicious.

* * *

She's woken by a whispering of harsh voices. A clatter of hooves against a hard surface. Her eyes snap open. she tries to move her hands. But they are bound tightly, the rope chafing her skinny wrists. She lets out a ferocious stream of swear-words into the darkness, eyes still adjusting.

A hand lashes out, slaps her hard across the cheek. "Shut your foul mouth, girl."

She narrows her eyes defiantly. "No."

"She's a fiery one," a second voice comments.

"Fuck you," she spits in the general direction of the second speaker.

"Can we please just get on with this," the third creature sounds more bored than anything else. "He'll be expecting us."

"Where the fuck are you taking me?" she grinds her teeth together, letting out a snarl from the back of her throat.

"Do not make me gag you," a light flickers into life, revealing three men, harsh, wild men with the bodies of humans and the hindquarters of horses. Centaurs, of all the proud, stubborn creatures that could have captured her, it had to be them. She's always hated horses.

She is flung unceremoniously over the back of a dark one, head and heels hanging either side of his body, useless. "Do not try to escape," her captor warns her, his tone indicating that he would have no trouble shooting her down with the quiver of arrows he has strapped to his muscular back.

"You must be really dumb to think I'd escape with my hands bound," she grunts. "Go on, giddy up."

"I am not a rocking horse," the centaur says, offended, and with that he's off, moving so fast her head spins from motion sickness. She shuts her eyes, keeping her mouth closed against the bile that seems determined to make an appearance.

It takes her a few seconds to realise when they've finally stopped. Hands pull her off the centaur's back, pushing her downwards until her knees make contact with rough wooden decking.

She looks up, into the coldest blue eyes she's ever seen, and her stomach acid forces its way up her throat, through her mouth and onto his feet.


	2. A Wild Bird in a Cage

**Title: **He Just Won't Let Her Go

**Rating: **T for Language, and later chapters.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't think I'm cool enough to be Rick Riordan, do you?

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed last time, and anyone who favourited or followed. It makes me happy. I'm also on the hunt for a beta for this story, as I have some ideas I would like to run past another writer. If anyone's interested, would you please PM me?

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**A Wild Bird in a Cage**

* * *

They lock the door, leaving her screaming and pounding on it from the other side. This was not how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be safe, free. Now she's a prisoner, held captive, like a wild bird in a cage.

After a long while, her voice gives out, and she slumps onto the carpeted floor. It's soft beneath her fingers, blue like the sea, like the sky. She doesn't trust anything so clean, so fine. She doesn't think she ever will.

Hours pass, days even, for all she knows. She stays there, lying on the carpet, silent and still. She refuses to cry, to lament the loss of her liberty. They've taken that from her; they can't have her tears as well.

Finally, the lock clicks open, the door swinging outwards. She regards the newcomer warily, through hooded eyelids, not making a sound. A woman enters, a beautiful woman, who approaches the girl, prods her with the tip of a perfect silver shoe.

"Don't touch me," her voice grates against the ear, breaks the smothering silence that has hung about her like a cloud ever since her capture.

"Well you're not very grateful, are you?" the woman almost purrs at the girl lying on the floor, adjusting the plunging neckline of her deep fuchsia dress.

The girl doesn't reply. "What's your name?" the woman prods her again.

"Why should I tell you?" she jerks upright, baring her teeth at the woman, her tangled, dirty hair in a wild mess around her face. The woman takes a step back, startled by her feral appearance.

The woman's eyebrows draw together, as she tries to cover up her moment of shock. "Feisty, aren't you? That'll get you into a lot of trouble here. Our leader doesn't do backchat." The girl looks on impassively as the ends of the woman's hair catch fire, becoming a writhing mass of flame. "Now tell me your name before I grow angry, girl. You do not want to see me angry."

"Lydie," the girl snaps, lying back down on the carpet, unaffected by the flaming hair of her interrogator. "My name's Lydie."

"Lydie…?" the woman folds her arms.

"Cole," she grits her teeth.

"Daughter of?"

"Why do _you _want to know?"

"Records. Archives. Call them what you will. Who's your parent?"

"Thanatos."

"Well, that wasn't too painful, was it now, hmm? We've really got to get you cleaned up, Lydie Cole."

"No," Lydie scrambles to her feet, backs into a corner. "You can't make me."

"I think you'll find I can," the beautiful woman snaps. "You will not dirty this ship any longer."

Lydie growls again. "Leave me alone!"

But this is one fight she can't win, struggle as she might. One skinny girl is no match for the trained soldiers that come running on the woman's call, no matter how hard she fights. And that's how she finds herself sitting in a bath with the _empousa _lady glowering at her.

"Wash," she orders.

"No," Lydie hisses.

"Now, or someone else will have to do it for you." Letting another person near her is abhorrent; Lydie reluctantly picks up the flannel.

* * *

After a cursory wash, and multitudes of swearwords as she pulls a comb through her tangled hair, Lydie, apparently, looks more like a human being. She stands, naked in front of the mirror, curious despite her best efforts. Never having seen your own reflection does that to you. Makes you scared of what you'll find.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but not this stranger, with the haunted eyes and hollow cheeks that stares back at her, that moves when she moves.

Absentmindedly, she traces a thin finger over the tattoo on her shoulder, the tattoo she never should have spent her money on, but couldn't resist. One day we all disappear, it says. One day we all disappear.

How very true that is.


	3. Cold and Unforgiving Stars

**Title: **He Just Won't Let Her Go

**Rating: **T for Language.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't think I'm Rick Riordan...since I'm not male...or middle aged...

**Author's Note:** Here's the next installment, I hope you lovely readers like it. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. I'm still looking for a beta for this story - if you're interested, would you please contact me? Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Under the Light of the Cold and Unforgiving Stars**

* * *

It is weeks later when she is finally deemed trustworthy. They finally allow her door to remain unlocked, and finally let her wander the ship undisturbed.

But of course, with privileges comes responsibilities. She is expected to turn up to sword-fighting lessons, inspections and drills even after she has proved that she has sufficient skill with a dagger. She has to take her turn in the ship's kitchen, burning the food and curdling the milk. No-one ever taught her how to cook.

When nightmares keep her awake, she takes a blanket, and sits out on the deck, under the light of the cold, unforgiving stars, the wind pouring off the sea. The chill makes her shiver, but she's survived worse in her time.

It is on one of these nights that he finds her, leaning against the railing, staring up at the skies. "What are you doing here at this time of night, girl?" his voice breaks the quietude, like a stone thrown into a reflection.

She starts, but doesn't look round. "Old habits die hard."

That is enough to let him join her at the rail, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the boat, gazing at the constellations scattered like silver sequins against the black velvet of the night. After a while, he turns to look at his companion.

"You're the new one they brought in."

"Yeah," she moves a strand of red-brown hair from her face. "You're the person I threw up on."

"Yeah," he shrugs.

"I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not," her tone is defiant, cool. Daring him to be angry with her.

He doesn't reply, just folds his arms, leaning against the rail. "Orion's bright tonight," he says.

Her curiosity gets the better of her. "Which one's that?"

He traces the line with his finger. "Those three are his belt, and there's his head. See them?"

"Yeah," she traces them with her finger, leaning over the rail. A small smile quirks the edges of her mouth, making her look softer, younger. Less world-weary. "Wouldn't have tagged you as being one for star-gazing."

His expression closes up. "A friend taught me."

She doesn't respond, instead sinking to the ship's deck, pulling her skinny knees into her chest. Her brittle hair falls in her eyes, and she makes no attempt to move it.

They wait in silence until the rosy fingers of dawn begin to creep over the horizon, each lost in their own thoughts, in company, finding solitude.

* * *

She stands near the back of the group, an old fleece pulled tightly around her angular shoulders. It's March, but the winds still carry the final sting of winter, blowing in from the North.

He is on a box of crates, a makeshift podium, sword sheathed at his side. His voice carries over the restless silence. No-one would dare interrupt him, even with the undercurrents of anger moving just under the surface of the crowd.

"And this is why we fight," he raises a hand. "The enemy depend on luck for their victories, and at the moment they have had a pure fountain of luck pouring from Tyche's cornucopia. But soon enough, it will run dry, and that is when we will strike. It will be a long and difficult battle, but we _will _overcome them!"

His blue eyes blaze as the crowd cheers, the anger at the failed, discarded plans fading as quickly as it rose. The plans that ended in death, in the loss of allies, the loss of friends. The defeats that still sting every time he dwells upon them. _What could we have done? _he thinks. _What the hell could we have done? Luck will bring down even the most meticulous plans without a second thought._

As he jumps down from the crates, he spies a flash of red-brown hair, a small, forlorn figure hanging onto the edge of the group. Making his way through the multitude of congratulatory words and cheers, he reaches the rail where she's standing.

"Pretty words," she says, lifting her chin to meet his eyes with her own.

"Thank you," he leans back against the rail, watching as his army disperses, back to chores, drills, inspections.

She pushes her hair back behind her ear with one hand. "So when is this luck going to run dry for the other side?"

"I have no bloody idea," he says, surprised at his candour with one of the lowliest of the troops. "I was told to get rid of the roots of rebellion, and I did."

She shrugs, pulls her fleece around herself more tightly. "Maybe the roots of rebellion was what the ship needed."

"You mustn't ever talk like that," he snaps. She glowers at him, the mood instantly turning sour.

"I can say whatever I want. It's a free country," there is defiance etched in every line of her, rolling off of her skin in waves.

"Not on this ship," he glares at her.

"You can't fucking tell me what to do," she spits that last out at him, as though the words taste bitter, salty.

"I am commander on this ship, and I think you'll find you'll have to bloody well obey your superiors!" his tone is sharp as cut glass, slicing at the air.

"Fuck you," she gives him the middle finger, the expression on her face ugly. "I don't obey anyone."

And with that she's gone, quicker than a breath of air blown on a cold winter's morning.

He stands there, staring in the direction that she's gone. It's the first time anyone's argued with him properly, argued for the sake of arguing. The first time since he lost Annabeth's trust.

Lydie Cole is either the bravest or the most stupid person he's come across since he set foot on this ship.


	4. Dark, Twisting Tunnels

**Title: **He Just Won't Let Her Go

**Rating: **T for Language.

**Disclaimer:** I really don't think I could've come up with Percy Jackson. Do you? Therefore, I am assuming that I am not Rick Riordan.

**Author's Note:** Beta? Anyone? Please? Also thank you to HSP for reviewing (a guest reviewer). It made me smile. This one's for you! :)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Dark, Twisting Tunnels**

* * *

She inks it on her skin, running the pen over and over, retreating into herself with each repetition, until the words are engrained into her mind. _All the living are dead and all the dead are living. _It was in a dream, a nightmare that these words were spoken. She saw a battle, a massacre. And a pair of blue eyes slowly turning to gold.

"What are you doing?" his voice shatters her fragile reverie, like a stone thrown in the glass-smooth water of an undisturbed pool.

"Drawing on myself. What the hell else does it look like?"

His expression tightens. "We're one man down on an expedition into the labyrinth."

"How is that my problem?" she looks up at him with those eyes, those multi-coloured, patchwork eyes that put him on edge.

"You're coming in his stead," his voice cool, emotionless.

"Am I?" she tosses her wild hair back over her shoulder, heaves a deep sigh.

"Yes. Get ready." He turns and walks away.

* * *

The torch flickers in the dark entrance to the tunnel, sending long shadows across the flagstones of the floor. He stands in the mouth, arms folded across his chest, his blue eyes searching each person in turn for doubts, for any signs of weakness.

"We'll be down there for three days," his eyes lingering on Lydie. Next to the other soldiers, she looks so small, so delicate. But he's long known that appearances can be deceptive. "You all have water rations, food rations, weapons. I won't say that it will be easy, but the person who finds Daedalus will be greatly rewarded by our Master."

This prompts a cheer from everyone – except Lydie. She stands, poised on her toes like a wild bird about to take flight, her gaze fixed upon him. Her lips pursed in what seems to be disapproval. He raises one eyebrow, and she shrugs her thin shoulders.

"The Labyrinth won't wait forever," Chris Rodriguez says pointedly. Luke jerks his gaze from Lydie and turns sharply on his heel.

"Come on, then."

In a few brief strides, the darkness has engulfed him, swallowed him like snake consuming its prey. The thought sends a shiver down Lydie's spine, but she brushes it off, squares her shoulders firmly. _It won't be long until I see the sunlight. _

* * *

She loses her sense of time trapped in the darkness with only the murmurs of her companions. It is not long before she feels like screaming, cursing, crying. She was a child of the outdoors, the wind, the rain, the sunshine; not one of dark, twisting tunnels and echoes of words spoken long ago.

She is going mad, trapped beneath the suffocating earth. She wonders if this is what it's like, being buried alive. Breathing in the soil until it drowns you, the weight of the clay crushing you. She tries to keep the terrifying thoughts from her mind, but it doesn't work. She will die down here, die in the dirt, and she will never see the sun again.

Her death will be all for nothing, and it's all Luke's fault. He is delusional. Daedalus died thousands of years ago. Not even his bones could have survived this long.

Three days have passed; she is resigned to the damp, smothering darkness, to the endless search for a ghost hiding in the shadows. Defeated, they reach the end of the tunnel, the faint circle of light growing brighter by the second. She pushes past the other soldiers, past Luke and then she is running and running, and she trips over her own feet and tumbles head-over-heels out of the entrance.

She is laughing when the rest of them emerge. Sitting on the ground, clutching her grazed and bruised knees to her chest, laughing loudly, raucously. She is free, she is alive.

And no-one will make her go down there again.


End file.
